Tall Orders and Small Graves
by WhatComesFromWithin
Summary: VoldemortWins!AU. Narcissa Malfoy has a debt to repay a dead man. Warnings for mentions of character death, of the desecration of corpses, of mass murder, and of torture.


**Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry (Challenges & Assignments)**

**Travel and Tourism: Task 1: Tyneham - Tyneham, South Dorset—Write about a ghost town.**

**Word Count: 1076**

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything associated with the Harry Potter universe. All right go to J. K. Rowling.**

Narcissa Malfoy gingerly stepped over the debris strewn across her path. She was shielding the soft pink chrysanthemum she held in her right hand from the dust that swirled through the air as the wind blew. It wasn't right, she thought, that the sky above was such a beautiful blue. It should be grey, or raining, or at the very least cloudy. But it seemed like the heavens had decided to smile down upon them all that day. She supposed she should take it as a good omen, but it only felt ironic.

She wasn't upset about the outcome of the war. This was what she and her family had believed in, her family was safe, and they were revered once again. Narcissa had everything she'd wanted, but there was still something she felt obligated to do.

The town was eerie. Toys were scattered across lawns, front doors were left wide open, someone's laundry was still hanging from a clothesline. It looked like every family had taken their cars, their bare necessities, and gotten the hell out. Which, of course, they had. The exodus of Muggles and Muggleborns had been quite chaotic—Bellatrix had certainly enjoyed herself, as had Rodolphus and Rabastan. Remaining Order members and other half-bloods and blood-traitors had been—she grudgingly admitted—bravely rushing to transfer Mudblood families to safehouses. Lucius was working on locating those now.

Narcissa could still hear the screaming and tears from that day. The maternal part of her ached for them, but she and her family had been through too much for her to dwell on that for too long. The world would be set right soon enough, anyway.

There was a house on fire in the distance. Someone must have left the stove on.

Distantly, Narcissa wondered how alive the town used to be. Was it quiet and quaint? Did people mind their own business, or was it one of those towns that seemed to belong to one big family? She didn't know, and she supposed that he wouldn't know either.

Narcissa didn't know how she felt about that.

The ground was more uneven now; she must be getting closer.

Familiar thoughts started to swirl through her mind. Why had he done what he'd done? He could have died, and it wasn't like her family had ever done anything for his, at least nothing that she was aware of. Maybe he just wanted to play the hero again. Maybe he wanted them in his debt. He could never tell her, and she would never know.

There. A weathered sign reading _St. Jerome's Church_. This was where she needed to be. Narcissa rubbed her thumb over the stem in her hand. She weaved her way through the graves decorating the hills beside the little church, feeling the chill of a small breeze and the melancholy saturating the air.

Narcissa wondered what was actually buried beneath his grave. She wouldn't be surprised if the biggest piece left of him was a finger. The Death Eaters had had lots of fun with his body after the battle, after all. But she knew that some of his friends had managed to steal his body back, in however many pieces it was—she didn't know—and she knew from Draco that they had buried him here, even marked a grave for him. As far as she knew, he hadn't told anyone else, and neither had she. Their fellow Death Eaters were done with him, and they hadn't asked after the body. Who cared what happened to a desecrated corpse?

She was fairly certain that one of those friends had been caught, but for the life of her she couldn't recall which one. Draco would know; she'd ask him when she returned home.

A large gravestone—easily the largest in the lot, save one monument—caught her eye, and Narcissa made her way over to it. This must be his grave. Big, attention-grabbing, fairly new—

That...wasn't the right name. This was someone else's grave. Narcissa's brow furrowed in confusion. Had she been misinformed?

Still frowning, she walked through the cemetery, carefully reading every name on every grave. Close to the middle of the cemetery was the infamous Potter statue, and she rolled her eyes as she started to walk past it, but halted when she spotted the words written on a small, engraved rock at its base:

_Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, and will live on_.

Narcissa couldn't tear her eyes away. This was where they buried him? Harry Potter, legend, the Chosen One, the _Boy Who Lived_, had his grave marked by the smallest stone in the entire lot, with words, though heartfelt, hastily carved into it with magic? _This_ would be the legacy of the Order's hero?

It was absurd.

Preposterous.

Odd.

Granted, whoever bothered to bury what was left of his body had to be in a hurry, but surely they could have erected a bigger stone for him. This grave made him seem so unimportant, easily overlooked, practically a nobody. Yet this was what was going to be remembered of the boy who as a baby had defeated the darkest wizard to have ever walked the earth. Lord Voldemort was not going to have Harry Potter and his life story written in the history books. In a few decades, all anyone who hadn't fought in the war would know about him was that he had been an upstart who was the Order's only hope, but who ultimately failed. His gravestone wasn't doing much to provide any opposition to this. Did the Order wish to forget about him, too?

In the end, Narcissa decided it didn't matter. Her purpose wasn't altered by this new find. She crouched down and laid the pink carnation on the ground against the stone.

"I have never agreed with you," she began, "and I don't believe in your cause. But you gave me a great gift when you told me my son was alive. You were under no obligation to, and it changed nothing for you; however, it helped me a great deal, and I owe you a debt for that. I neglected to pay it then, when I gave you away, but I'm here to repay it now. This flower represents remembrance, and I can certainly promise that in my mind, at least, you will not be forgotten. Thank you, Harry Potter."

Narcissa stood up carefully, brushed the dirt from her skirt, and walked away, only once glancing back.


End file.
